Two Years Too Late
by Squiet
Summary: What if Sherlock Holmes returned to London two years too late? Would his friendships be able to rebuild themselves? Or will everything crash down in the blink of an eye? The Consulting Detective's reappearance in the London scene is retold in the dreary, wilting-flower-in-the-grass point-of-view of Molly Hooper. Sherlolly. Set FOUR years after Reichenbach. S3 SPOILERS
1. The Wilting Flower

**Two Years Too Late**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Sherlock, I would've written episodes with 99% less fangirl sadness and 100% less hiatuses. I also would've given John a beard, not a mustache. Unfortunately, as we have observed, I do not own Sherlock.

**A/N: **My other multi-chapter Sherlock fanfic, "Watson's Niece," will be out shortly. And by shortly, I mean like a few weeks from now. *throws flowers at your face*

Please favorite and review. :3 I really want to know your opinion about this fanfic. It's an ambitious style.

Last but not least, I am American. I apologize for pouring tea in the wrong cup or playing the violin the wrong way.* If I do make these mistakes, please tell me.

Enjoy! XD

_*Translation of what I said: "I apologize for incorrect aspects of British culture or Sherlock references."_

~Chapter 1~ ~The Wilting Flower~

Molly Hooper always thought the world would fall in a graceful manner. She always thought the last light of summer would fade out like a dying light bulb, flickering until it plunged the Earth into darkness and took all the moonlight with it. She always had the image of wilting flowers on a windowsill, watching their life source die, doing nothing but wilt in a melancholy gesture. Picturesque, impressions on paper made with the light strokes of a pencil and the slightest touches of watercolor, simply disappearing into the darkness. If only the world could die in such a light way.

As she got older, blocks of words and pictures marched across her eyes; her interest in science led her to what really happens when the sun dies, the passing away of the world ensuing. The sun's burning hot core would blast the world with intense, never-before-seen piercing, hot power, evaporating every single drop of water and leading to the death of everything living and the destruction of almost everything manmade. When the sun had died, just like the Doctor regenerating, it will leave a world broken and uninhabitable. It would leave it dead, ravished by extreme, merciless power.

She only wished it would be hotter in London.

Molly took her trips to the past on sidewalks of bustling, I-don't-give-a-damn London, bundled up in her warmest outdoor attire. Every step her three-year old leather boots took, her soul flew farther and farther into the past. She could feel every color, every feeling that she had felt; from the yellow happy memories of her picture-perfect childhood gave to the purple and white fantasies of lab equipment and purple dress shirts.

When she felt her father's proud hug or the detective's sexy smart-talk, she reminded herself both of those men where in her past. Far, far in her past.

The city around her, plagued by harsh winter, was starting to melt. The first rays of sunlight peeked from behind heavy clouds, shining down on bare, skinny trees and nestling birds, who were starting to sing their morning songs. It was always cold to Molly, no matter if the slightest bit of sun peeked from behind rain or if a rainbow shined against her from passing sprinklers. Even on the 'happiest day of her life' it was cold. Even in the middle of summer she requested a heavy jacket to be worn whenever she went outside. Or, what her best friend noticed, whenever she met the eyes of family members. No one else said a word, because everyone there could read Molly like a book.

She found herself seating her bottom on a dew-covered wooden bench, adjusting her woolen beanie. Biting her lip, she decided to sit there and take in this part of her past she had stopped at. Her walk into the past was halted, paused like a movie as she recalled memories. After scratching the very bottom of the pot she gathered enough will to look up. When she finally did, her heart skipped a few beats. She felt her legs itching with the temptation to walk back into the present, but her mind kept her rooted there.

The door that was directly on front of her across the street stated, **_221B. _**The charming, worn knocker and the licorice-black paint chipped, but it still held strong memories. The colors of purple and red swirled around her, the memories of the purple dress shirt and the crimson of her cheeks ran after her as she stood up and walked faster than she should have back into the present.

She felt flustered; her cheeks were red and her pupils were dilated. She couldn't face 221B as a pigment of her own, real life; she could only approach it like an admirer with ink and paper or like a childhood story, a fictional character carrying out dashing rescues and solving thrilling crimes on the walls of a bedroom in crayon. She could never face it like it was her life before, like she had given him eyeballs which he kept in the back of the refrigerator or like she had given him a gift he never opened.*

Desperately grabbing at the present, she glanced down at her wedding ring. She grabbed it and pulled it off of her finger, examining it closely, from the slightest scratch to the gleam of gold in the sunlight. _You are happy. _She told herself, _You are happy._

She kept telling herself that lie. She kept on telling everyone that lie. She told everyone that she was happily married to Tom, an awkward, lanky man who bore a slight resemblance to the absent consulting detective. He was chosen by her friends to suit her type and needs; however, this meant a man with the same awkward demeanor as her and the appearance of a certain detective. He was a doppelganger, a staircase leading to the door of her happiness. Apparently, it would help her reach something she'd never opened the door to. Happiness. Pure, yellow happiness.

She wore turquoise to Mary and John's wedding. Observing the bridesmaid's dresses, which were a pasty orange color, she decided her choice of dress wasn't near to horrible. Strolling through the sunny courtyard of the venue, the dizzy crowds of people passed by her eyes in a blur of silence and thunder. She went up to Mary and told her how beautiful she looked, while Tom stood by, as awkward as ever. Tendrils of warmth and familiarity reached out of Mary's natural vibrance; immediately, the two women formed a friendship. Clutching John's hand, Mary told Molly something she would never forget, "You'd look beautiful in yellow, Molly."

There was a dress sitting on the bed Molly shared with Tom. It was spread out, along with a matching cardigan. The very sight of it made her eyes hurt; it gave out a vibrant yellow so bright it punched at her heart. She imagined her happy in that dress, with a giant yellow ribbon in her hair to match. With shaky arms, she had held the dress on front of her at the mirror. She tried to pull the corners of her mouth up into a smile, but they returned to their permanent place, formed in a frown.

She didn't touch it again until Tom came home from work, asking her who had given her the dress. The note that had sat on the dress was now slowly burning away in the midst of merciless flames in the warm fireplace, turning into useless, undecipherable ash, Molly's eyes watching it burn. She told him it was a friend who owned a dress shop and kissed him on the cheek. The whole night she kept in mind what was written on the note. She tried to push out the thought of the initials. She tried to convince herself that she didn't recognize the handwriting. This was yet another lie she told to herself and everyone else.

_Do me a favor, Molly Hooper, and wear this at John's wedding. –SH_

The wedding reception was dull at most. Even the bright, noisy yellow wallpaper did not help the flat atmosphere and the grey frowns on people's faces. Mike Stamford, John's best man, had a heartwarming speech, but those closest to John knew he'd have preferred someone else giving the speech. After that had cut the cake with picturesque and photogenic behavior and smiles, the bride and the groom strode towards Molly, whom Tom had left alone due to a trip to the loo.

Before her hand could reach a platter of truffles, it was grabbed by John's. She looked up at his weary, bittersweet eyes. He looked like a wilting flower; he would never be as bright as he could be without his best friend, but he was still pretty and most, holding enough happiness for children and enough patience for a married life.

"He was a good man," he told her.

Molly pulled her hand out of his grip, giving the biggest smile she could muster, no bigger than a speck of dust. "Yes, I know."

Molly left the wedding early. She left her cardigan on Tom's chair as she walked out with bare shoulders. Melancholy music echoed out into the darkness from the building, ivy crawling up walls illuminated magenta. The air was piercing, stark cold, and she could see her breath front of her as she crossed her arms. Cold did not bother her.

"Molly Hooper?"

Instantly cringing with the expectancy of a hiding reporter in the bushes, Molly was slightly relieved to see Mycroft Holmes in the bushes instead. He walked forwards with lines on his face framing stress and seniority. His deadpan face and his mourning outfit did not fit in with the dance-worthy music and the whimsical landscape. Standing directly on front of Molly, he made an effort to look caring.

"You didn't wear the dress as directed."

Molly felt her face fall as her eyes wandered elsewhere. She rubbed her arms, murmuring, "Why should I have worn it?"

"He wanted you to wear it."

"Oh well," Molly spat out, feeling the vibrant happiness of the yellow dress drain out of her. Her cold, silky turquoise dress couldn't be any colder. "I didn't want to wear it."

Molly Hooper didn't want to be happy, was what Mycroft's complex mind of cogs and waterfalls deduced. He took in a deep breath, holding his chin up high with every slightest bit of respect. "He wants you to be happy."

Reaching back to pull the matching turquoise bow out of her hair, Molly turned to walk towards the road. "I don't believe that."

_Sherlock Holmes is dead. _The sentence echoed in her mind the whole way home. The long cab ride, the light of London, a vibrant city thriving in the midst of unmistakable darkness under weak moonlight. She looked down at her turquoise dress and saw the sadness in her eyes. Sherlock Holmes wants—_no, wanted—_her to be happy. She doesn't care. She doesn't care and she sends the yellow dress into exile at the very back of her closest for eternity, left to gather dust along with a box of her childhood mementos. Sitting in a silent flat all by herself, still engulfed in chalky wedding afterglow, she closes her eyes and tries to forget "black, two sugars" and "being sad when no one can see you." She tells herself that she never counted and falls asleep, waking up to find Tom's arms around her.

Molly never visits Baker Street after that. She never bothers to dwell in the past again. After hopping into a cab a few blocks away from 221B, she makes her way home, home which is in Tom's arms, in his flat, in the light of day. She leaves Sherlock Holmes behind her, but she cannot get rid of him for long.

When an airplane lands into the Thames with a large, menacing black cloud of smoke and high, monstrous splashes, she knows she won't get rid of him.

The cab stops and Molly walks out. Her fingers tighten on the railing lining the bridge as several other onlookers gather around her. The glint of her wedding ring is no match to the majestic heat of the large fire emitting from the wreckage of the fallen airplane.

**Next, on Two Years Too Late…**

**…is basically the Sherlock universe where our favorite consulting detective returns "two years too late."**

_*Dearie, I just love my own writing. I basically say that Sherlock kept the sight Molly gave him away, never touched it, and that he never accepted the gift of friendship and care Molly offered. Le sigh._


	2. Heavy Secrets and Candles

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock. If I did, well, Sherlock would still be an asshole but he would be a little more human than he already is. He'd also play the piano, in addition to the violin.

**A/N: **Thank you for the lovely reviews! Before this chapter begins I'd like to address the fact that I do not like keeping people waiting, which is why I am pre-writing 'Watson's Niece' (will be out in a few weeks.) The next chapter may be out this coming weekend!

* * *

~Chapter 2~

~Heavy Secrets and Candles~

All the ingredients of chaos mixed together created the perfect pastry of terror. It was flawless.

Molly Hooper watched the smoke rise up into the sky in threatening swirls, hearing the thousands of people, who were gathered along the riverside like algae on a boat, scream, point and capture the sight on their phones. Distant wails and screams of terror, the heightened curiosity and impulse to run filled the air. It smelled like burnt plastic and wood, filling bitingly-cold London air with damp humidity. Working with the natural impulse, the citizens and tourists of London descended into fear and ambiguity, pointing and yelling out propaganda.

Molly only watched as helicopters descended around the aircraft. Seemingly even more nervous than the bundled up citizens staring at the wreckage, police officers pushed them back to make way for ambulances and fire trucks. Every able service was there: the coroner, MI6, the police force, even a few American troops armoring up. She didn't know where they came from, but they did wear American flags on their shoulders. Her hands remained on the railing and her eyes on the craft, even as a black car rolled up behind her and someone ran out.

"Molly!" Lestrade called, his voice heavy from panic and exhaustion, running out to meet Molly on the side of the bridge, "Molly, thank god you're okay!"

Looking over to her left, Molly sniffed, feeling her pointy nose go numb and red from the cold. "Hello, Greg."

"There's more than likely to be casualties. You're needed at St. Bart's to prep for autopsies immediately."

Molly nodded, letting go of the railing. She zipped up her jacket and faced Lestrade, which of whom was sporting whiter hair and bigger bags under his eyes. He looked decades older than he was before, heavied by more unsolved cases walking out of Scotland Yard's doors without the consultation of a private detective at hand. No jewelry heists were ended on a note of sarcasm and I-know-it-all and no murder left Donovan snickering and murmuring, "Freak." Molly knew he missed him, but she couldn't bring herself to look into Lestrade's dimming eyes. She couldn't even look at John, and very rarely Mary. Her focus was on her hands as she and Lestrade continued to talk.

"Where did the Americans come from?"

In the midst of panic, running civilians, abandoned cars and women breaking down into tears on the side of the street, Lestrade answered Molly's innocent question. It was only part of the chaos, only a single fragment of what was going on around them. Some people fainted, some others just ran away, but no one wasn't unamused by the seemingly terrorist-driven airplane landing in the heart of their city.

"This was their craft, Molly. The president was in it."

Molly's heart sunk into her stomach as the smell of smoke in the air grew sickening. She felt the flower starting to wilt and the sun start to dim as she reached for her inner strength and met Lestrade's eyes for the first time in forever, holding the contact for as long as she could without blinking. "Are you telling me that I'm going to have to cut open the bloody president of the US?"

"Yes."

Puzzle pieces floating in the air fell into place when Molly realized what the cause of heightened panic was for. Hopelessness was mixed into initial shock and reaction because of American tourists and British citizens with American relatives. The earth shook with the desperation in the sobs as Molly looked down at her hands, her wedding ring. These hands will open up the President of the United States on a slab in a quiet, cold morgue. She could see the blood, his brain, the tattered suit on the table…

"Are you alright, Molly?"

She stared into Lestrade's eyes again, pursing her lips together. She grew determined, strong, brave. "Yes. It's just the thought of opening up someone so important…it just shook me for a bit."

"If you're not well, we can ask Doctor Landsford…"

"No, I'm alright." Molly quickly assured him, giving him the biggest smile she could muster. "I'll be on my way."

"Great. I'll pay your cabbie. You can get into the car; I'll be in there in just a moment."

"Right," Molly's spoken word dissipated into the air as she headed towards Lestrade's car, watching him pay the cabbie from behind the window. She looked over at the aircraft wreck, the very tip of the wing sticking out from the Thames, a fire heavily burning, swirls of smoke reaching out into the air as far as it can. Lestrade shut the door and drove away, just as helicopters approached the wreck with water to put out the fire.

Red-hot panic dissipated as they drove farther and farther away from the Thames, and the air began to feel icy-cold again, the streets less than crowded and lacking screams and police sirens. Silently fading away, the accident was far from over. Once in a while the wail of a firetruck or a police car would come and hit Molly with unforeseen force, making her jump every time either came rolling down the street. Every time Lestrade had asked her if she was okay, and every time Molly told him she was fine.

Without warning, Lestrade brought the car to a screeching halt, jumping out of the car and opening Molly's door before she could unclick her seatbelt. It was either he was high on a coffee-induced caffeine rush or she was rigid from the fact she was going to perform a very important autopsy. Lestrade held her left hand, the one the wedding ring was on, and helped her out of the car. Reaching over to close the door behind her, Lestrade asked Molly if she was okay for one last time.

"'m alright," Molly said, sniffing from the cold. She slipped her leather gloves off of her dainty little hands and headed inside.

Inside St. Bart's, the air was strangely empty. As if someone had used a vacuum to suck any sort of smell or sound out of the hospital, that was what the reception area felt like. The air lacked the stark smell of disinfectant and the barking orders of paramedics rolling in bleeding patients or nervous cries of parents and spouses. No young child whizzed past them on rollerblades they weren't supposed to be on and no beeping and slamming of a video game echoed down the hall. Instead, the occupants of the chairs had their eyes fixated on the only television on the room; all of them watched the coverage of the crash.

The receptionist, Betty, saw the arrival of Molly and Greg, peeling her eyes off of the television for the sake of greeting them. "Afternoon. Terrible, isn't it? The crash?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said gravely, sinking his hands into his pockets, "Molly was there."

Betty's bright blue eyes clicked onto Molly's, curiosity and concern flying out of her mouth. "Oh my god! Really? Are you alright?"

"'m alright," Molly repeated, feeling the slightest sting of annoyance hitting her chest. The warmth of the hospital cushioned her cold face like hot buns straight out of the oven, making her sniffle a bit. Her red nose, sniffles and just-as-usual slightly sad expression made Molly look like a sob story, one someone would put on the paper or document on the telly for the sake of profit and destruction.

"Are you sure? Landsford's in today, he'll be more than happy to…"

"I can do the autopsy," words rolled out of Molly's mouth as she played with her wedding ring, the shiny little thing that always bothered her, for some odd reason, "and I can handle myself on an emotional standpoint too."

Molly quickly adds, "You don't need to call Tom," and starts heading down the hall to the elevators, feeling Greg and Betty's eyes heavy on her back, ignoring the bright, icy winter light filling into the hall from large floor-to-ceiling windows. Striding through the hospital, she replaced her jacket for her lab coat and her comfy side-braid for a serious-looking high ponytail. Snapping on gloves and prepping the autopsy, she felt her heart race faster when she heard someone fly into the room.

"Oh sorry, I'm not done preparing yet…is the body here?"

Molly grabbed a few dishes and some scalpels, her ears open and ready for the new arrival's answer. No words were spoken after a few moments, forcing Molly to pull her eyes away from her urgent prepping to look up at who had walked in.

The new arrival was the destruction of the world itself. It wasn't the flickering light of the sun disappearing and the lone little wilting flower slowly dying, the muted, silver-lined death as the last droplet of hope flew out into space, it was the reality. _Hard, _true reality. It wasn't whimsical as Molly's dreams were, but the brooding storm, the dastardly large explosion of light and heat, both happy and destructive, walking in like nothing was ever wrong but really, kicking over towers and making everything crash onto the ground. _He _didn't leave the lights on until the power ran out, he exploded it first.

"_Bastard_," was what came out of Molly's mouth first. A dish of tools fell out of her hand and landed on the ground in glittering, noisy light. The shrill crash filled the room, spreading across the two of them like a seismic wave. It rattled at Molly's heart as she backed away from the man, putting an entire island counter between them. He still stared into her soul, stared like she was the most interesting thing in the world, _maybe _the most beautiful, the most important…

"Get your bloody eyes off of me," Molly hissed, reaching for a scalpel to defend her, staring at the man's face. His eyes burned into hers like acid, making them sting and causing tears to fall, "and get out."

Molly knew he didn't want to go. Even from that far away, she could tell that his heart was shattered and now falling into pieces, crashing down like the dish of tools she had dropped. The sun was desperately trying to shine but failed at every attempt. Flickers of a smile tried to crawl up his face but were no match for the quivering frown and the damp eyes. He was a broken man, bundled up heavy and tight hiding a sob story.

_Tell me what's wrong, _Molly's own words were flying through her ears, not spoken now but four years before, breaking into her innermost thoughts, pushing at the harsh and unwelcoming words she had planned to speak. _What do you need? Tell me what's wrong. What do you need? Tell me what's wrong…._

Molly watched as teardrops fell to the linoleum floor, both of hers and his, setting the scalpel she had held in her hand on the counter with a large _SLAM. _Her hands found the side of the counter, gripping it with all of the strength she had, with the urgency of hanging from the side of a building. Her fingertips grew white and the wedding ring dug into her finger, but it didn't stop her from squeezing it harder and then slamming her fists on the counter, her hands greeting her face just as she started to sob.

She was warm from embarrassment and shock, as well as the sunshine trying so hard to shine on her. It was unfortunate that a raincloud followed her wherever she went, casting ever-lasting sadness on her. It was also unfortunate that two sad people cannot cheer each other up.

She could feel his presence beside her. She could feel the warmth, the smell of cigarettes. She could _feel _his shadow, the dark coat flying behind him like a cape. Every single cell in her body sobbed as she felt his hand set on her shoulder.

"_Congratulations,_" his voice falters, falling into the abyss. That one word echoes through the room, accompanying Molly's sobs.

Molly set her hands on the counter, trying to keep herself from crying, yet at every attempt her sobs grew louder. She felt his calloused finger brush over her wedding ring, with sensitivity for her and disappointment for him. Through the blur of tears she turned around to look at him, the closest they have ever been to each other. With hardly any air between them, she looked into his piercing blue eyes. Those usually calculating, cold eyes were now broken and sad. Behind the eyes she could still see his brilliant mind at work; she saw flashes of Tom, his awkward demeanor, the surprised smiles of his family, the barking of his dog…even her cat, Toby, whom she had to give up because of Tom's pet. He put the pieces together and his eyes moved from the ring to Molly, still damp from tears.

In the dim, stark light of the morgue, she watched the crystal tears slide down Sherlock's pale, flawless skin. It cascaded down his cheeks like a dripping faucet and over his brilliant cheekbones. Even in rotting sadness in her heart, Molly couldn't help but appreciate how some tears caught themselves in his overgrown hair, his badly shaven face, his brilliant, damp eyes…

She could feel the rough stubble on his chin as he kissed her forehead. She could even feel the devastation in his shaking hands, fumbling through her hair, her hair tie disappearing causing it to fall down her shoulders. Every little touch, every stolen glance he would've allowed himself were all happening at once to make up for four years. Two kisses, one on her forehead and one too near her mouth, then digging his head into her hair, starting to sob; Molly was 'happily' married yet made no effort to remove another man's arms from around her waist neither her arms around his neck. She felt dirty yet just as broken as him.

"_Sherlock…_" she whispered, feeling her own sobs rumble in her ears. "_…oh, god…_"

The embrace lasted for five seconds, hastily cut off when Lestrade's even, urgent footsteps came bouncing down the hall. Even in a fit of emotion, Sherlock had shed his coat, pulling a blonde wig and a pair of glasses out. He was a blonde, intelligent-looking man who looked slightly red due to his sensitive skin once Lestrade had walked in.

"Oh…Molly." Lestrade looked over at the tools on the floor and the stranger accompanying Molly on the far side of the room, "So who's this then?"

"Sam Handerby," Sherlock replied, almost immediately. Realizing Molly was at his side with tears in her eyes, he snaked his arm around her shoulders, adding, "just an old friend from uni."

"I—I got…a little emotional," Molly hiccupped, wiping away tears with her lab coat sleeve, "he just brought back so many memories."

Molly could tell, from the skeptical look in Lestrade's eyes, that he was taking Molly's messy hair, the misplaced tools and the unprepared autopsy slab as dodgy. Even this random appearance of this 'Sam Handerby' was odd. Him and his odd-sounding American accent…

"I'm the US's Secretary of State's assistant," Sherlock proclaimed, lies streaming out of his mouth as did his tears out of his eyes just moments before, "and I was meant to meet the president once he'd landed in London, but I'm afraid he didn't make it…"

But Greg wasn't having any of this. Every inch of his face was emitting doubt and fraud, twisting and frowning as he hastily got out his badge. "_Chief Superintendent _Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Not a single bit of information has been omitted from my ears ever since I got the bloody title. Even the fact that the president was never scheduled to land in London."

Molly immediately looked over at Sherlock, who's face fell from embarrassment and defeat. The usual bright light in his eyes from solving cases and successfully deducing was replaced by painful tries on figuring things out. "I can explain…"

"_Yes you can._" Lestrade growled, stomping over to him. He ripped the glasses and the wig off, only to attack Sherlock with a monstrous hug. "_You bastard! You complete and utter bastard!_"

He yelled, _"FUCK YOU!" _into Sherlock's shoulder, swaying them back and forth. Crusty from fallen tears, Sherlock and Molly's eyes locked on each other's as Lestrade continued to yell foul things into Sherlock's shoulder. A pained laugh escaped Molly's mouth, accompanied by a few more tears.

"No body, is there?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, over yells and wails. "I'll just need a yes or no."

"No," Lestrade whimpered, pushing himself away from Sherlock, straightening his suit and running a hand through his hair. He wiped his damp face as he tried to straighten up, "no, I just came in here to tell Molly that. It was remote-controlled."

He let out a sputtering, wet laugh, looking over and Molly, "Dear Christ, I was going to ask if you knew any decent detectives who would like to help us find out who controlled the plane!"

Irony tickling his heart, Sherlock cracked a smile, wiping away tears as he walked over to pick up the tools and dishes from the ground. Molly forced herself to numbly put supplies away and after a few hearty laughs, more spilled tears, Molly found the sky outside to be dark and herself in a cab on the way home.

* * *

"So why do ya think he came back?"

It was the first question presented over tea at Tom's flat. With only candlelight to illuminate their faces, the two leaned on the granite countertop in the kitchen. Both Greg and Sherlock were invited over for tea with Molly, however only Greg accepted. Sherlock, on the other hand, disappeared into the shadows in an alley beside Bart's, only giving a smile and a nod as a goodbye.

"Why do you think he faked it, is the question," Molly told Greg, tucking her brushed hair behind her ears. She tapped her wedding ring on the mug handle, making a shrill clicking noise echo throughout the flat. "I mean, you have to look at the cause before the effect."

"True, true." Lestrade murmured, taking a sip of his tea. Silence ensued as he looked up at Molly, who was still lazily playing with her ring. "But I reckon it's because of the plane crash."

"I do too."

"So what were you two doing?"

"Sorry?"

"I dunno how long you two were with each other, but, you know…" he motioned towards his own eyes, tracing circles in the air, "…he was crying too."

That was when Molly bit her lip. Truth was, she was slightly awestruck at his reaction. Six months into the four years he was gone, Molly dreamed at night, struck by insomnia caused by her role in Sherlock's fall, that she'd be reduced to tears on the night he'd come back. She knew she'd be the one who'd be embarrassed as she tried to straighten herself up, Sherlock's critical and judging eyes over her. But the reality wasn't quick and swift. His reaction was tear-spawning, broken, touchy. Like something had happened that made him realize how important everyone was to him.

"Never saw him cry before," Greg stated, gazing through the flat, his eyes landing on the single candle that sat between them. The power was out, leaving the two to fend for themselves with phone lights and candles. "was a little shocked."

"Neither have I," Molly lied, but feeling bitterness at the end of her tongue, realizing she'd done enough lying for a lifetime, she added, "actually, he was, when he was on the roof talking to John. He never actually sobbed…"

"…he _sobbed?_" Greg chuckled, a crooked smile pushed up on his face. "Bloody hell."

Molly could almost feel his curiosity behind his voice as he asked, "Do you wonder why he was so emotional? Seriously, what did you two do? I don't think one look could leave you two sobbing."

"I just…got startled," Molly blushed, her mind shuffling through the memories, "I think I held a scalpel to defend myself or something like that…though it was odd, he kissed me twice and hugged me."

_"Wow,_" Greg commented under his breath.

After a period of silence Molly said, "Something's not right about him."

"What makes you say that?"

"He was shaking," Molly recalled. "No, honestly, when he touched me…it felt like one of those massaging armchairs or something like that."

"Maybe he was cold. It's a tundra out there."

"No, he was very…warm." Molly insisted. "But his eyes…"

Staring at the flickering flame atop the lavender candle, she tried to block out the chills that crawled down her back as she recalled his eyes, "…like the Doctor, you know? They looked so old, like he'd seen so many bad things…they usually sparkled with anticipation but now, it's like someone threw some water on that fire."

Greg nodded, sipping more of his tea. He found a stool and pulled it closer, sitting himself on top of it. "So, what do ya reckon?"

"What?"

"If he'd came back years earlier, like two years or something, what do ya reckon would be different? I mean, firstly, whatever happened to him, he wouldn't be a shaking, nervous wreck."

"True…"

"I mean, sure, it's been too long for all of us, we all completely moved on." Greg let out an exasperated breath, setting his mug on the counter a little too hard, "Like come on, we all thought he was _dead. _What's John going to do when he sees him?"

"Bloody hell, who knows?" Molly sighed. She couldn't begin to imagine how badly people will react. It would be a spark in the midst of a blackout and a miracle in the light of tragedy to the media, but to everyone else; John, Mrs. Hudson…it was like death itself was crawling out of the grave, like a bad omen…

"They'd put up a fuss, as far as I know."

The focus on their conversation and the tea was instantly grabbed and thrown over at the man standing at the doorway to the flat. Everything about him reeked broken. Even Molly couldn't help noticing how much of a scrub he was; Sherlock always wore suits, looked perfectly groomed—but Sherlock now hadn't shaved in a lifetime. He wore sweatpants and a greasy-looking jacket. After four, long years, it broke her heart to see him so different. So broken.

Broken, like glass shattering from impact, spraying over her in a matter of seconds. Shock, passing through every body part, leaving her breathless and wishing for more…

"I'll need proper grooming supplies, as well as access to better clothes. All of my belongings are still at Baker Street, mustn't walk in looking like this demanding for suits, should I?" Sherlock flashed a smile, taking no sadness away from his eyes, "Would you ever be so kind, Graham?"

"_Greg._"

"Sorry, right, yes."

"Tom could help you with that," Molly told Sherlock, slightly breathless. She set her mug on the table, looking at his chest rather than his face.

From the corner of her eye she could see his cold, icy blue gaze melting like butter in a microwave. "Sorry, who's Tom?"

"My fiancé," said Molly, "the one who gave me this ring."

"Oh." Sherlock sniffed, forcing his eyes wider. He adjusted his jacket as if he was already wearing a clean suit. "Of course. So he's the man who was making his way up to the flat? The one who cares about his manliness so much that he bought shoes a size too big for him and always makes the habit of puffing his chest out?"

Greg opened his mouth to defend awkward Tom, but Molly beat him to it, agreeing with Sherlock. "Yes. That's the love of my life."

"Sarcasm."

"I love him."

"Lies."

"You read me like a book." Molly told him angrily. She didn't know what she felt, a numb feeling taking over every part of her body. She could say she missed having critical, I-care-so-I'll-hurt-you Sherlock Holmes pointing out every single flaw out of her love life, but at the same time she was so offended that he had arrived in her flat and was now insulting her life choices. _Her husband. _She should defend him, but no; she was siding with the consulting detective. The prince of her sugary-sweet fantasies who'll sweep her off her feet and bring her along in his wonderful endeavors, heart-racing crimes.

"I love him. That is not a lie."

Sherlock leaned his head forward a little, as if to mock her façade. "Yes Molly, you love him. Said so yourself. Also in subtext, admitted I was correct."

The three heard footsteps echo down the hall behind Sherlock, who quickly muttered, "My name is Sam Handerby. Old friend from Uni, assistant to Secretary of State."

As if in order from a script in a play, Molly promptly walked towards the doorframe just as Tom appeared there. She put on the sweetest smile she could muster and kissed him on the cheek. "How was your day, sweetheart?"

"Good, good…" his eyes drifted elsewhere to the other two men in the room. He looked lost. "…erm, who's that? And why is Greg here?"

"Greg and I met an old friend from Uni of mine." Molly said, just as Sherlock turned around. "This is Sam Handerby."

Sherlock held out his hand to shake Tom's, who hesitantly took his hand. "Nice to meet you, Tom. Your wife is full of contradictions."

Shooting a heavy, angry glare at Sherlock's direction, Molly reached forward to pry Tom's jacket and scarf off of him. Tom took that as a joke and laughed, saying, "Well, you can say that."

"Tom darling," Molly tugged at his sleeve, "Sam's gotten himself into a pickle. He needs access to a razor and a spare suit. Can you help him?"

"Um…" looking over at his wife's sugary sweet smile, he couldn't help but say yes. "Yes, that'll be alright with me."

He set his briefcase on the counter beside the mugs of tea and turned to Sherlock. "Uh, Sam, pretty sure it's obvious where my razor is. The bathroom's the first door to the right. I'll get you a suit." He disappeared into a bedroom, to which speaking ensued.

"He's nice." Sherlock commented.

Molly's face morphed like a child tasting the sour inside of a sugar-covered candy, obviously offended by the sarcasm underlying his rumbling voice. She wanted to slap him, but instead flashed a smile. "Keep him from getting bored, Greg. I'll go talk to Tom."

She could see their eyes running after her in the mirrors of the hall, watching Greg picking up his mug and Sherlock taking a seat on a stool at the counter. Neither of them, for some unfathomable reason, did not exchange words until she had shut the door of her and Tom's bedroom.

The bedroom they shared was cozy, draped in an essence of what every bedroom should be: an oasis, a place where they could escape the exterior evils. The lights were dim and it always smelled of flowers or cinnamon. Otherwise, it felt so normal; so familiar, as Tom's embrace was to her and the ever faint presence of their quiet, sleepy dog. Words exchanged between them were clipped and short, hardly filling up the room with anything else but empty space. The two led a mild conversation to which Tom agreed with everything like a docile dog being trained and in which Molly ordered and received. She felt ever-growing dread at the bottom of her stomach, telling Tom that Sherlock's name was 'Sam Handerby' and not the man whom she still fancied, the lie under the wedding ring she wore, under the vows she had spoken.

Lies are like candles; they make things great for a while, but once the fuse burns out all hell will break lose. Lies are heavy and will only hurt you if you run fast enough to avoid the flame.

**Next on Two Years Too Late…**

**…Mary Watson bumps into our favorite detective and pathologist on the street.**


	3. Little City, Big People

~Chapter 3~ ~Little City, Big People~

**Disclaimer: **I really don't own Sherlock. Really, if I did, things would be much more different. Like, this-tv-show-is-run-by-fangirls-apocalypse-everyone-hide sort of thing.

**A/N: **Sorry Mr. Guest, was being annoying. I meant to change the rating after posting the first chapter but I had no patience. Once again, thank you for the reviews and support! Have fun with the feels!

And I added a little spoiler warning too. Lots of things run past you when you're in the moments leading up to uploading a fanfic. But Molly though. What a BAMF. Those John and Mary scenes made me melt, I love those two to bits. And of course Sherlolly. And Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson have a special place in my heart. And Mrs. Hudson. And Mycroft. And the new villain, he was so creepy, but loved him.

In short, I love the show Sherlock. And I also love that gif of Sherlock and that wedding ring. I want that in my life forever.

Enjoy! :3

(Psst, new chapter of A Partner, Not as Spouse coming tomorrow!)

* * *

Molly always thought she was worlds away from him. She always thought, underneath flimsy clothes and a lab coat, inside the confines of the morgue, she was worlds away from Sherlock's main concern. She was the very back of the line behind murderers, that prostitute woman, John, Mrs. Hudson, his brother…at the end of the day he'd be far from concerned about the boring, infatuated pathologist who always got him coffee. He'd mutter for a beaker or a book and she'd give it to him, stat. She gave him everything.

After years of blushing and embarrassment and the ever-rotten hopelessness associated with the fact that he'll never notice him, it took only one conversation. It only took her just an infinitesimal piece of strength, bravery, a jar of it stored on a dusty shelf saved for a rainy day to get it out. To start opening his eyes to what she really is.

Molly didn't choose what played on the radio. She didn't choose to have all of the flickering flames atop numerous candles illuminate the flat. Not a single word came out of her mouth of objection, however, no matter how many times Tom lit candles and no matter how many times Katy Perry sang about unconditional love. She could only sit on the sofa, body wrapped in Tom's warm knit blanket, arms crossed atop her chest and stare at the blank television screen. She tried to picture tonight's episode of The Bachelor or a random episode of Doctor Who, but neither appeared on the dead, unpowered screen.

She couldn't help the rain, either. She couldn't help how dark it was outside with the streetlamps temporarily off for maintenance. She couldn't help the dreary aura with the light of her flat warming hearts and promptly, melting them.

_"I will love you, unconditionally…"_

Her heart squeezed from rotten feeling, overwhelming dread and the everlasting taste of bitterness. She wanted to reach over and turn Sherlock's head around, because his bloody beautiful eyes couldn't make her feel worse. Those calculating, _intense _eyes—that_ man, _shrouded in warm candlelight, his pale skin illuminated with comfy, warm color.

_You are Molly Hooper! _She yelled at herself, yelling at her internal self to toughen up, _You are Molly Hooper and you will not take shit from this man! You will not be mousy, you will not be scared, you will be Molly Hooper and you will ask him what you want to ask him!_

Hearing Tom walk into the bedroom, most likely to look for more matches, Molly turned to look at Sherlock. His eyes were focused on the dog, cozily sleeping on the armchair across from him. They softened as his mouth puckered up, remembering a sensitive memory. Greg had fallen asleep on the counter, so it was just the two of them. Just the two of them and a question.

"Sherlock?"

As if he'd forgotten she was there, his brow furrowed and his eyes instantly locked onto Molly's. He gave out a little "Hm?" and she cleared her throat, suppressing anxiety and letting out, "Have you opened my present?"

"What present?"

"The Christmas party. I gave you a present, did you open it?" she could feel tears forming behind her eyes, "It was wrapped with that fancy gold-embroidered paper," she let out a forced laugh, stifled and painful, "you said the ribbon matched my lipstick, remember?"

Sherlock gulped, his fingers tugging at the sleeves of his borrowed suit. "Molly, that was almost half a decade ago."

"Yes, I know," she heard her voice tremble, but she tried hard to steady it, as well as her wobbling chin, "but did you open it?"

His eyes locked shut with the force of gravity. Molly felt needles poking at her heart when she thought for a moment that she had done something wrong, but she felt better when a wave of relief washed over her as he opened his eyes again to take out something from his pocket…

…a present.

No, it wasn't her present, it was far too small to be hers, and different wrapping paper also. The paper was a warm yellow, white tulips drawn on the surface with a fine brush. He threw it over to Molly, who caught it with ease. Something rattled inside of it as she held it, looking at Sherlock, skeptical.

"Go on," he motioned for her to open it, the slightest bit of anticipation and annoyance under his words, "it's for you."

"Thought that was already obvious." Molly told him, as she ripped off the delicate paper. She opened the velvet-lined box to reveal a ring inside. Her heart flew when she realized that it wasn't just any old ring; it was silver, adorned with sparkling, _real _diamonds. An engagement ring.

"What…"

"It was for a case. Mary Watson's bridesmaid worked for a certain man who of which Mycroft has already taken care of for me. I meant to give it to you last Christmas, however, it seems you already have one."

Her entire body grew numb, setting the box on the sofa beside her with shock piercing her mind. "The ring?" she could only sputter out.

"Yes."

"You're saying you would've asked me to marry you…"

"No," Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, gripping the sides of the armchair, "No, not that. Just…a vow. It's what people do, don't they? Vow to keep their loved ones safe? People also give little mementos, little, valuable things to symbolize their vow. I would've given it to John, but I didn't think he'd enjoy it—and furthermore, it would be a waste of such a beautiful ring."

Molly looked over at the ring. The ring, and as she examined the petty wrapping paper beside it, she realized how well-wrapped it was, as if someone had taken a serious amount of time to wrap it. The grey marks at which the edges sat on; those grey marks told Molly it has been in quite a lot of places…dropped on a street in Paris or buried underneath clothes…

"Swell," Molly commented, "do you have one for Greg too?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Mementos usually reflect on the recipient. I'd rather give him a handful of soil and it'll still have just as much meaning as that ring does."

"You called me beautiful."

"Yes, I did. By popular opinion you are."

_What a sass. _Molly thought to herself, indulging in a smirk. Silence fell between them, disrupted by several snorts and grunts from Greg, all the while as Molly put on the ring. It fit perfectly, right above her wedding ring, glinting in the ethereal light of the candles. She couldn't help but sigh dreamily.

"In case you're wondering," Sherlock broke the silence in haste, being louder than he should have been and more authoritative, "the reason I have not left yet is because of the light."

"Why?" Molly asked. "Because of the candles?"

"No. Because of the lack of light."

"What about it?"

"London is a fairly wealthy city. On a late, rainy night, they wouldn't want to have dodgy alleys and potential rapists and murderers to not be able to be seen by the naked eye. Why, while they have backup power stored for any power outages, would they turn the street lamps off?"

"So what? So what if they don't have enough power for street lamps?"

"Not only the street lamps are off," Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, "but even as I hear cars rattle by, I see no headlights. Drivers are required to have their headlights on at this time of night."

Molly sighed, bracing herself for an entire discussion about lights. "And so?"

Sherlock's head sharply turned to face her, blue eyes opening wider, "Tom had gone to bed and Lestrade is asleep on the counter. You're still awake. All three of you have experienced, approximately, the same amount of adrenaline and shock. You've developed insomnia while I was away, no wonder you always look dreary."

"Thank you for your kind words."

"John." Sherlock's mind switched on John. He stood up to start heading out the door but he turned on his heel, looking over at Molly, still draped in Tom's jacket. "No, wait—he wouldn't be happy. Molly, would you come with me?"

Slowly, Molly stood up, picking a few strands of hair off of her face, "Why?"

"So we can solve a mystery together."

* * *

Trailing behind Sherlock Holmes, his black coat whipping behind him like a cape, Molly pushed her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, taking large steps to try to keep up with him. It was when he opened the door to go outside when she asked, "Where are we going?"

"Outside."

"But exactly where?"

"Just out."

Rolling her eyes, Molly followed him out into the horrid rain. It fell into their hair and immediately drenched the two. Her hair clung to her face like ivy on a wall and heavied her entire body as they dove in between the threads of her coat, chilling her entire body. Sherlock, on the other hand, carried on, even as his dark curls obscured his vision. His eyes scanned the street like a hawk; they tried to spot the slightest movement or anything out of place. Molly didn't see it, but she knew inside of his heads thoughts raced around at lightning-speed; for all she knew, he could've already recited the first 509 numbers of Pi in the few seconds he had gone still and silent. He could've even sifted through the entire Harry Potter series.

"Molly."

She stared at him, her arms gripping her sides as she desperately tried to keep herself warm. Shifting between both legs, she asked, "What is it?"

"Fallen power line. Roadblock ahead, a few blocks or so away, letting cars through periodically. That's why there is never clumps of two or three cars, just one car at a time. Headlights off to prevent interference with the high-voltage of exposed wire."

"Brilliant." Molly stated.

"Indeed!" a new voice rang out to the pair, causing Sherlock to look towards the direction. He seemed quite surprised to see a woman in a bright red jacket, equally wet as Molly and Sherlock. She wore a friendly grin, holding out her arms in a hug. Struck by strange surprise, Sherlock stood there as he watched the woman shift past him to bring Molly into a hug. The two grinned and laughed like old friends, asking each other how they've been and other small talk before the woman turned to Sherlock.

"Who's this, Molly?" she asked. She seemed quite confident of herself, like a deer strutting across the forest floor. She had a sort of graceful manner, taking steps big and small, words soft and hard. "Tom's brother?"

"Oh, no." Molly's eyes latched onto Sherlock's again, joined together as she said, "No, this is S—"

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock finished, holding out a hand. Molly stood, slightly aghast, as she watched Mary shake his hand, a little taken off her feet. She looked at Molly with her mouth morphed into an "o."

"Wow, what an odd name. I'll be sure not to forget that one." Mary smiled warmly, storing her hands in her warm pockets. "I'm Mary, Molly's friend. We met at my wedding."

"John Watson's wedding." Molly explained. "This is Mary Watson, his wife."

_Wife?_

Slowly, reality suddenly hit Sherlock again, knocking the breath out of him and pushing him off his feet. He realized that after four years of unbearingly empty air, absence of those who cared, everyone moved on with their lives. They buried him, in the ground and got on with their lives. Found other people to love. Even though he wasn't dead, it sure as hell felt like it. Dead to the world. Dead to those he cared for the most. Even Molly Hooper, who stood right next to him, still felt miles away. Now, looking over at Mary Watson, words flying around her such as _Liar _and _Clever _and _Romantic. _

"That's nice." He murmured to himself, "John found someone ideal for a change."

"Sherlock!" Molly sighed, patting Mary's arm. "Sorry, he's just being the dickhead he always is. It's just him."

Without a hint of offense on her face, Mary nodded, understanding. "Oh, it's alright. Say; you haven't talked about this man before! How long have you two known each other?"

"Oh…" Molly flashed her a quick smile , tried to avoid Sherlock's eyes, "…erm, how long has it been? Eight years?"

"Nine."

"Wow!" Mary nodded, clasping her hands together. "That's a long time! You met over a cadaver, Molly?"

Molly smirked. "Yeah." She peeked over at Sherlock, a face of shock and disappointment clouding over his face. She felt a sharp pang in her stomach as he realized what he was feeling. _Left out. Unimportant. _She vowed to fix this as soon as possible, so she made the silly excuse that the two were freezing and that they needed to get inside quickly. Mary waved goodbye as the two stepped into the lobby again, the mouth-tightening afterglow of small talk and socializing.

"That's not really my area, Molly." Sherlock sighed, "_Feelings._"

Ignoring the puppy-dog face and the handsome way he leaned slightly towards her when he talked, Molly swept past him and pushed the button to the lift, her body slowly stopping the shakes. "No shit, Sherlock."

"I never—well, I believe I have experienced feelings as a child, Molly, but I'm afraid I've deleted them."

Molly stepped into the tiny, mirrored box, slamming her fist at the rusting, ancient button corresponding to her floor. She kept the tiny nagging feeling of everlasting feelings for the man, suppressing her undying love for him with her _true _love for Tom, the awkward, sensitive Tom, the man who gave her this ring—no wait, _that _one, the less shiny one. Not the other one, not the engagement ring to which is attached a vow, by someone who loves her, who…

_Rings. _What are they, anyway?

"You deleted your childhood, the solar system, what you had for breakfast yesterday?" Molly faced Sherlock full on with a surge of unforeseen confidence. Her hands curled up into fists, channeling frustrating anger into her physical tiredness. "Sherlock Holmes, you do not do feelings and you delete the most important things of life, the _small, _the _sentimental, _so tell me this: what did I give you that Christmas nearly half a decade ago?"

_She wanted to know. _She wanted to know if he opened the gift she had given him, wrapped in love and hope corresponding with the words her lips spoke, the everlasting, silent promise of help and love whenever he needed it. She _needed _to know. She just had to know…

But the look in his eyes remained blank, clouded. It was Sherlock's eyes, which of those were unknowing, confused. He dug through piles and piles of papers in his mind palace, pulling shelves from the ground and papers out of the trashcan, trying to find what he was looking for. Why is it, after so many hours, has he managed to not organize the large hall in which he stored Molly Hooper? After all, she was just a human being…right?

He searched and searched, trying desperately, only to stop in defeat when the lift _dinged _and the doors retracted. Molly gave him a quick, disappointed look from over her shoulder as she walked out and down the hall. He followed quickly behind, reviewing a few more papers.

_Her mother' s name is Anne…_

_…she was bullied as a child…_

_…her brother was in the army…_

_…she enjoys Doctor Who…_

But he couldn't find what she gave to him for Christmas. Through meaningless festive crap she had given him a present, her heart poured out over it, yet he'd thrown it away like it was trash.

Molly Hooper knew that he wouldn't ever remember. It was a far-shot, anyway, to hope that the love of her life, the unattainable would remember after all of this time. She was nothing to him. Nothing at all. Sniffing, still unbearably wet, she shed her coat and collapsed on the sofa again, soapy, dusty scents of numerous candles filling her nostrils. She didn't care about him. She just wished he could go away now.

However, as one would surely take back the words said, she did just as so. She wished he could stay _forever. _She wished she wasn't married. She wished he hadn't arrived two years too late. It was two years too late.

She found his lips on hers, kissing with unbelievable delicacy, with passion so muted like the roar of Niagara Falls yet the voice of a dreary Spring rain. As her hand slid over his cheekbone and down his neck, she took her other hand and rested it on his chest; she lost herself in passion she hadn't experienced in a long time.

However, like all good things in the world, they had to be disturbed in the worst moment. With the flick of a doorknob and the slightest push, the door swung open.

**Next Time on Two Years Too Late…**

**…The Holmes brothers discuss mystery and Molly encounters the Watsons.**

There will be more of Mary and John in the next chapter…I love them :3


	4. Of Cake and Guilt

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Sherlock. If I did, Molly and Sherlock would be a couple and Mycroft would have an odd obsession with cake.

**A/N: **Oh hai there! Listen, there's only a few weeks left in the term and my English teacher just added a fifth project to my pile! Sooo, when all of that is done, fanfiction will come your way! A lot more!

(Last chapter of A Partner, Not a Spouse and a prompt fill for Barriss)

* * *

~Chapter 4~

~Of Cake and Guilt~

In a moment of panic and reduction, their lips parted. Molly kept her eyes shut, praying to _god _it was not Tom who had opened the door and caught them in the act, but instead someone a little more easier to deal with, like Lestrade or a random neighbor. She heard the ruffle of Sherlock's hair and his hands brushing off nonexistent dust from his broad shoulders and she opened her eyes, only to connect them with her lap, feeling ashamed and red.

Letting out a weary laugh, quavering and nervous on the extent of Sherlock Holmes's infamous rotten behavior, he looked over at who had opened the door. "Moment of weakness. Nothing more."

"Whatever you say, brother dear." Letting out a sharp sigh, Molly looked over at Mycroft Holmes, ultimately relieved that it was not someone who would put up a fuss. She noticed that Greg was still asleep on the counter.

Sherlock crossed his arms, walking towards his brother. He had a wavering smile on as he approached him. The air grew heavy and tense, every person in the room holding their breath. Over the entirety of four years worries no longer became worries, but hopes. Hopes that either one of them was alive. Taking a peek behind their stone-cold facades willing to actually seem like they care, the Holmes brothers, a couple thousand miles away from each other, haven't seen either of them for eternity. Molly felt like she should be walking out of the room.

"You clean up well."

"I do."

"Yes, compared to your appearance when you greeted Ms. Hooper earlier this evening."

With the ever so slight raise of the eyebrow Sherlock silently questioned his brother's omnipotence, security cameras and all. Molly watched, amused, as Mycroft nodded his head in the slightest manner as his brother had did, silently answering his question. Then, after a long, pregnant pause, the two of them stepped forward and brought each other in a short, awkward hug.

A smile raising onto her face within a cloud of relief and levity, Molly sat up and stared at the fireplace, silently waiting for the Holmes brothers to complete their hellos. She listened to the two men clear their throats, one after the other, straightening their ties, making do of their hands which have been awkwardly dangling at their sides. After another strange silence, hanging heavy and humorously, Sherlock grabbed a grin.

"I see you couldn't resist the cake."

Mycroft chuckled deeply, his eyes wandering everywhere but his brother's face, finally settling on his own big stomach. "I see you've given sentiment a try."

"Oh please, brother of mine, do tell more."

"Hasn't Mummy told you that you mustn't kiss other men's wives?"

Molly cleared her throat, pursing her lips together. "Your brother was at the wedding. Did he tell you? Send a few pictures?"

Sherlock snickered. "Oh, _please, _Mycroft couldn't even bear going to John's."

"He did. Well—a few yards from the reception area, that is."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the floor, his hands sinking into his pockets as he kicked at a bump in the carpet. "Mmm, well, I came for the cake, you see."

The Holmes brothers chuckled, cueing Molly to rush into her bedroom, in her rightful place beside Tom's side. Under muffled silence and the lavender covers, she pulled Tom's clammy arm over her waist, cuddling herself to his chest. She closed her eyes, telling herself that the ambiguous man hadn't kissed her. She told herself she was in love with Tom and was going to spend the rest of her life with him. She told herself all of these lies, living under the impression she was happy. Nearly brimming with exaltation.

Then as she drifted off into sleep, she told herself that all of these things weren't true.

What made Molly ache more than the longing for the love of a handsome, mysterious man was only one sight—only one glimpse, only one look. Oh, it shone with the happiness of rising sun after a night of rain, yet it hit Molly with unbearingly large amounts of guilt.

Smiling like the perfect model family on a magazine, two jumpy young girls dressed in frilly, beautiful sundresses skipped down the pathway pulling their parents after them. Molly stopped dead in her tracks, clutching her bag to her chest as her heart ceased to beat. She could only hear the clinking of the mug full of water she had filled that morning, drowning out the squeals and laughs of the two children. Shutting her eyes as if she had seen something so disgracingly nasty, she took in a deep, _deep _breath just as one of the children recognized her.

"Miss Molly!" she squealed, pointing one of her pudgy fingers at her. "Miss Molly!"

"_Oh, _Molly!" she opened her eyes to meet Mary's red flats and John's loafers, forcing her head up with willpower she didn't have to meet their eyes, "So nice to see you around!"

"Yeah?" she replied lamely, looking over at John. Her heart ached with rotting, horrible guilt, hands shaking with unbearable irony. "Well it's nice to er—see you two around. I guess."

"Mary told me you were with someone last night? Said you were dripping wet—did you catch a cold?" asked John, genuinely concerned. One of his daughters tugged at the hem of his shirt causing him to flash a warm smile her way.

"Yeah, he seemed like an odd one." Mary recalled, pursing her lips, placing a protective and gentle hand on her bag as a group of noisy teenagers passed by. "His name was S—"

"_Mary._" Her named slipped out of Molly's mouth with forced panic. She pushed it out, starting to grow warm. Her words ceased immediately, to Molly's relief, as she said, "That wasn't really his name. He—he does that."

Molly had lost count of how many times she had lied to Mary. The very first was lost in the web of lies she had intangled herself in—yet she guiltily indulged herself in such memories that she had kept to herself. She could still feel her lips tingle from Sherlock's kiss, the sweet fire his mouth offered. A finger brushing over her wedding ring and Sherlock's ring, she pushed back a smile as guilt slapped her in the face when she caught sight of the Watson family on front of her.

"Ooh!" the younger Watson girl pointed a finger, covered in pink nail polish, at Molly's ring. "Shiny!"

The other admired Molly's two rings, pulling her hand closer to her face. "Ooh! Pretty!"

Mary chuckled heartily, pulling John nearer to her. "That's a beautiful ring, Molly. Did Tom give it to you?"

She was going to let another lie slip inbetween her lips, but going along with her better judgment she replied, "No. It was the friend I was with last night."

John's eyes grew wider ever so slightly, with surprise coursing throughout his now stiffened body. "Oh?"

"Don't get the wrong idea" –Molly's words slipped out in a quavering voice that was usually reserved for lab talk with the consulting detective—"he's a…he's a jeweler. Haven't seen him in a while, gave it to me as a present."

Molly was starting to get disgusted by how easily lies could fly out of her mouth. She felt so ashamed of herself, how she let lying become easy for her. A facile practice now, which before felt like sinning—it ached even more as she made eye contact with John, eyes bright with joy for his children, but deep, _deep _down, was still sad. After four years, still slightly sad. Sad that Sherlock Holmes hadn't heard him when he said, "Do me just one more favor. Don't—be—dead."

The painful irony was that he was _there, _he was in _Molly's _flat, yet she daren't say a single word, no matter how heart-wrenching it was, no matter how much she wanted to get rid of the two Holmes in her flat, how she wanted to be alone with Tom. Because lies upon lies, she didn't know what was true or not anymore. Did she want the Holmes out? Did she want to be alone with Tom? She bit her lip and sighed profusely, quickly formulating an excuse.

"Nice to see you two little ladies." She looked down at the Watson sisters, "However I'll be late to work soon."

"How so?" asked Mary, placing a hand on Molly's shoulder. "It's Saturday!"

Molly's eyes widened, weight pushing on her even harder, "Oh—really?"

"That's what you get for standing in the bloody rain early in the morning, Molly! Go on—get some sleep."

Molly silently nodded, clutching her bag like the mouse she wished to never be again and walked on the opposite direction, trying to block out the delighted squeals of "Bye Miss Molly!" and made her way home. She only felt relief that the dam inside of her hadn't broken, that the truth wasn't heavy enough to break free. Yet, she kept telling herself, it would have to come out sooner or later. She'd have to reintroduce the man London thought was dead. She'd have to keep John from murdering his best friend and keep Mrs. Hudson from fainting. Tough, large tasks, all stacked up on each other, even the deed of dealing with the press. She'd even have to convince Stamford to let Sherlock work in St. Bart's again. She'd have to deal with Anderson's fan club, Tom, the guilt, the criticism—

The unfortunate thing was, she just didn't know how.

Sherlock watched, with somewhat of a warmth filling up his chest cavity, his brother. He watched the rising of his cheeks as he smiled, his large stomach stressing against his shirt, the hem of his trousers hidden. Like a faint memory floating in the air, he had pulled it closer and pushed it on front of him, watching the figure of his dear brother before his eyes. The only difference was he was here. Here, in Molly's flat.

His manicured nails drummed on the side table, in perfect rhythm, like soldiers marching. Sherlock had missed his smug smile, his criticism, their banter. He was quite fond of his brother.

Warm silence had passed between them, the two men ignoring a rather dazed and confused Tom, rubbing his head and shuffling back into his room. They ignored the door slamming shut as Molly made her way out. After a great while, taking in each other's company, Mycroft broke the silence.

"I'm guessing Garter didn't enjoy your company?"

"He actually did. Locked me up in his prison for two years."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows for a moment, eyes drifting through the flat with bored and unamused vision. "You were supposed to be back after two years."

"Yes, as I said, brother of mine, Garter rather liked me. Kept coming to my cell. We played with the riding crop quite often. I still have the bruises—would you like to see?"

"I've seen the physical bruises," Mycroft narrowed his eyebrows, "and your skin has been weakened dramatically. I'd like to see the mental bruises—oh wait," he cocked an eyebrow at his brother with sarcasm tinting his voice, "I've already seen them."

"Moment of weakness. Feelings—they took over for a short moment. Won't happen again."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "If you say so."

He cleared his throat, continuing, "I suppose you're aware of the plane crash?"

"Do you mean the badly-planned scare? Honestly, an American craft landing in the Thames? If they wanted to terrify people they would've hit Big Ben."

Mycroft laced his fingers together, resting them on his stomach. "I was under the impression you were behind it. After all, being away from London for four years would've called for an _explosive _return."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, voice tinted with amusement. "Oh? My own brother thinks I was behind a 'terrorist attack?' Your deduction skills aren't up to par, Mycroft."

"I'd say the same for you."

"Ooh," Sherlock held his stomach like he was the one with all of the fat. "It must be the cake."

Mycroft snickered. "Would you like to hear my cake-altered deductions?"

"I'm all ears."

"I knew Gregory Lestrade was recently appointed as Chief Superintendent at Scotland Yard, and would turn to Molly first in the case an autopsy was needed. At any time she would be whisked away to St. Bart's. I assumed you knew this information as well. So, you 'borrowed' a plane, painted on the US Presidential Seal, and crashed it into the Thames—by remote control, of course. Not Big Ben, the Thames, where it was certain no one would be severely injured. At the angle it crashed the only possible way someone would die was if they were swimming in the river. But why would you crash a plane? An explosive entrance, of course—a way to tell anyone who knew you were still alive that you were coming back. This also doubles as a way to get Molly Hooper at St. Bart's, where'd you greet her."

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head. "Honestly, do you really think I'd waste my time on impressing a woman?"

"I should be asking you that question. You do not flirt with married women."

The younger Holmes rolled his eyes, crossing his legs. "I was right. It _was _the cake."

"Cake does not affect my mind. Anyways, since I can confirm it was not you, who might we suspect was behind the crash?"

"Airport worker, computer hacker and no social life."

"Wrong, wrong and wrong."

Sherlock sighed. "Who do you suspect?"

"It wasn't just an innocent little hobby. It was an attention-getter; the jabbering first sentence of an entire essay. A new villain for your fairytale, Sherlock."

"I've had too many."

"It doesn't mean you can't get anymore."

Mycroft shook his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket and read a message. "_Rivière en bas. _Have you heard of the gang?"

"River Down." Sherlock translated, "Yes. Your point?"

"Aren't you aware of their work? They target rivers and crash things in them. Terror work, nothing more, nothing less."

"Why does this concern us, if you already know who did it?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Garter belonged to the gang. They must hold a grudge against you after you _miraculously _convinced him to kill himself. What I'm trying to say Sherlock—is that they may come after you."

Sherlock's finger flew to his lips, silencing his older brother. Footsteps grew louder, increasing with volume yet soft at most. Opening the door with a shaky hand and a stern face, Molly shut the door behind her and shed her scarf and coat, flying into the kitchen.

Mycroft cleared his throat, standing up just as his brother did the same. "I'll leave you to it, Sherlock. Just remember—"

"—not to kiss other men's wives, yes, you've made that clear now."

"No." Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, surprised as he said, "Just remember that your loss would break my heart."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, staring down at his shoes. After a few moments, he replied, "Remember to watch your cake intake."

Mycroft nodded, clearing his throat as he pivoted in his heels, walking out the door with every bit of self-control. Sherlock nodded as well, sitting back down in the living room, deeply and secretly relieved his brother was still alive—and self-admittedly, better off fat than dead.

_The jar opened twice. _Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, deducing Molly was making coffee for the two of them. Tom, no—for he had walked out the door after Mycroft, murmuring in Molly's ear with a kiss on the cheek before shoving his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

And not a moment too soon she came walking out of the kitchen, steam spiraling out of the two mugs she held. "Black, two sugars. Just how you like it."

**Next time on Two Years Too Late…**

**…Molly tries to talk to Sherlock about important things, whilst Mary discovers things she wasn't supposed to know.**


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